Inside, the quiet felt heavier than it should.
He ascended the stairs. As he reached the living room, there he was—Ye Xinren, perched stiffly on the couch, back turned, posture tight.
He hadn't come down. Not even when he'd heard the car pull up.
The cold shoulder radiated louder than words.
Jiang Yanxu didn't speak either.
He didn't apologize.
He didn't explain.
Instead, he retreated to his room, stripping away the sweat-soaked clothes, standing under the scalding shower until the sting forced the edge off his thoughts.
Minutes later, he returned, damp hair clinging to his forehead, chest bare, loose pajama pants riding low on his hips—an appearance that should have excited Ye Xinren. He crossed the room, settling beside Ye Xinren on the couch.
Ye Xinren showed no reaction.
Neither spoke.
The air between them felt brittle, charged, as though the echo of screeching tires still lingered.
